


Sin’s Temptation

by ImagineSilentHill (Magnex91)



Series: ImagineSilentHill Fic Collection [6]
Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, Other, Reader-Insert, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-11 23:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16861990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnex91/pseuds/ImagineSilentHill
Summary: "For the first time since he came to you, he genuinely looks at you. His eyes, the cold bronzed hazel of a bullet casing, take you in. The damage he’s done to your arm, your face. His fingers reach out to caress the wounds he’s made."





	Sin’s Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in a role-reversal scenario for all of Silent Hill 4, where Henry is the one committing the 21 Sacraments and hunting Walter as his Receiver of Wisdom. It doesn't really focus on Walter though. As such, Henry is kind of out of character for the series as a whole, but I think he's fine for his role here.

You had never noticed the man in the blue shirt before. He was just another face in your apartment complex; there were loads of them. The nurse, the old man, the musician… The guy in the blue shirt had just been one more of them. Even so, maybe part of you avoided him on purpose. His gaze was cold, even if it was friendly.

You couldn’t ignore him now if you tried. The pain from the arm he had broken was excruciating, and you begged and screamed for him to get an ambulance. Past the red, misty haze of your pain, you knew that he would never call it for you, but he was your only hope. Even in the face of your tearful screams, his eyes were impassive and distant.

“Return to the source through sin’s temptation,” the man in the blue shirt said. He wasn’t listening to you, it seemed like. “Under the watchful eye of the demon, wander alone in the formless chaos. Only then will the four atonements be in alignment.”

“What are you talking about,” you sobbed.

For the first time since he came to you, he genuinely looks at you. His eyes, the cold bronzed hazel of a bullet casing, take you in. The damage he’s done to your arm, your face. His fingers reach out to caress the wounds he’s made. “You are beautiful. You always have been.”

“Please get help.”

He unzips his pants and draws his cock out. Gently, he lays his hand on the back of your head. Even while you whimper and shake your head, he’s nice about it. As you keep resisting— shaking your head, saying “no”— he increases the pressure at the back of your head. He grips your head tightly. Not your hair, but your head, as if he means to crack your skull like an egg if you refuse him. His thumb digs into the back of your neck, hitting painful pressure points. Overwhelmed, you open your mouth and let him take what he wants.

The man in the blue shirt is violent about taking his pleasure from you. Maybe sensing that you’re not about to move or do anything but keep a slackened jaw and distant mind, he puts all the energy into you. He grips your hair and violently bobs your head on him. He slaps you, daring your teeth to click together. Daring you to give him another reason to hurt you. Everything he does is with one hand, though. The other hand holds something aloft, at an angle.

“It’s not perfect,” he says, apology and lust mixing in his languid voice. “But I wanted to commemorate it with something. Smile for me.” The camera flashes in his hand, and you choke back another sob. It’s an old-fashioned camera, one of the ones that print a snapshot in a few seconds. He pulls the photo out and shakes it in the air. He smirks at it and drops it near your knees. Your eyes follow the fluttering picture, and you can see yourself from his perspective. The cuts on your cheek, the tears in your eyes. Your body, exposed and slashed up, with a number carved into your chest like a barcode.

“I wish I had something better than this,” he says, taking another picture with one hand while moving your head with the other. He varies the placement of his hands, the angles of the camera. With each picture, he sets the camera back down on the desk, pulls out the picture, and drops it near you. “Something where you could truly see how you look to me. But I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?”

The man in the blue shirt sets the camera down and focuses on you, your mouth. He quickens his pace, fucking your mouth and throat with no care for the gagging sounds you make, the tears your cry, or the snot that drips from your nose and mouth. His breathing hitches and he finally, finally stops when you take his cock to the root and he breathes your name like a prayer.


End file.
